


The Necessity of Focus

by callale



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Hunger Games AU, Hunger Games/Sherlock Crossover, M/M, Multi, Sherlock AU, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callale/pseuds/callale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if we took all of our favorite BBC Sherlock characters and made them fight to the death?</p>
<p>Sherlock/Hunger Games AU Crossover</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Necessity of Focus

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> Okay, so a few things. In this, Katiss, Peeta, and all of them never existed - meaning the rebellion never happened. That being said, this fic takes place during the 83rd Hunger Games. 
> 
> Seeing as I'm sure this has been done before, I'm going to attempt to not make this painfully cliche in terms of plot. Basically, my goal for this is to integrate the Sherlock characters (and significant Sherlockian events ie: 'cases', quotes, and most importantly the Fall) into a Hunger Games arena without making John and Sherlock Katniss/Peeta. I want them to retain their original character traits to an extent and bend them where necessary. Though, there might be a bit of Johnlock in later chapters (because I can't help myself)

Jonathan Hamish Watson stood on the small metal disc waiting to be pushed into the arena.

Greg was trying to give him advice through the thick glass, but he could only make out every third word. A lot of it was advice Greg had already given him. Grab the closest backpack, try to find a weapon, and then turn and high tail it in the opposite direction of the inevitable bloodbath that would surround the Cornucopia. Then, find water. If he were lucky, he would stumble upon one of the alleged “chests” that had been hidden around the arena this year that contained valuable items beyond anyone’s imagination. _Allegedly_.

With the exception of maybe the Careers, John was pretty sure that every other Tribute had been informed of the exact same plan, because no one but the Careers came out of the Cornucopia alive.

However, that didn’t mean that John was going to listen to Greg, and that also didn’t mean that the other Tributes were going to listen to their mentors. Every year, no matter what the mentors advise, everyone’s first reaction was to sprint to the center of the arena in hopes of making it in and out of there before anyone else. It was foolish, and it was essentially suicide, but that didn’t stop anyone, and it wasn’t about to stop John.

John _needed_ to get his hands on axes (he’d settle for throwing knifes in a pinch), and that was that. And having seen the Games every year since he could remember, John knew that the Gamemakers often put the items of greatest desire closest to the bloodbath. Meaning they weren’t going to hand him a beautiful set of axes (or even _one_ axe) directly in from of his launching pad. He was going to have to work for it.

“10 seconds until launch” a pleasant voiced sounded in his ear, as if it was telling him the day’s work was done rather than signifying his imminent death was looming closer than ever.

The nervous energy in John’s stomach was growing with every passing moment and it took nearly all of his energy to focus on readying himself to run rather than concentrating on the hot ball of fire growing in his belly.

“5 seconds until launch.”

The platform started to rise, and Greg began to disappear from view. John gave him a halfhearted wave before he disappeared completely and John was submerged in the darkness of thick concrete walls.

For a moment he thought he might throw up, but then the first glimmers of sunlight began to stream into his glass cage. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they had, he drank in his surroundings as fast as he could, knowing that he’d only have a minute to get his bearings before the Games began.

As the glass tube slide away, John’s view of the arena doubled in clarity. The glass tube was thick and had distorted the image, most likely on purpose.

What John saw, however, made his stomach drop.

He’d been praying to both the old gods and new that they’d be in a forest – somewhere with thick trees, game to hunt, and places to hide far above the other tributes where he would have been able to (hopefully) wait it out.

What he saw, however, was the rubble of a city. And from this angle, it was an incredibly _imposing_ city. Something out of a history book, with the old language littered everywhere – completely unreadable in an unsettling way. Yes, there was foliage nearly everywhere, but no trees to be found, and even more distressingly, no apparent source of water.

John’s stomach gave another uneasy flip.

If they were in one of the abandoned cities on the outskirts of Panem (or even a replica of one) that meant that water would be near impossible to find. John didn’t pretend to know a lot of history – he had never paid much attention in school – but he did know that the old people used to have their water _pumped_ in from far away places. If this was one of those cities, what would they have to do for water? Or how far would they have to travel?

“30 seconds”

John pushed the thoughts from his head. _Focus, dammit_. He couldn’t spend even the first ten seconds of the Game in a daze. Every second mattered, and every second counted toward either his survival or his death.

He crouched down, knees bent, head forward. Now that his one advantage had been taken from him, John had to focus on his other skills. He had to trust his instincts above anything else, and he _had_ to be confident in his abilities. The minute one began to second-guess oneself was the moment one ended up with his head bashed in by someone named _Flash_ or _Gleam_ from District One.

5

4

3

2

1

“Let the 83rd Annual Hunger Games begin”

John took off, pushing with every fiber of his being, toward the Cornucopia. “Sorry, Greg” he panted as he made his way forward, focusing on his solitary goal as he hurtle over debris with precision.

He didn’t get a Tribute Score of 10 just because he could throw an axe well.  John chanced a look around, and noted that he, at least from what he could see, was in the lead. Being one of the smallest boys in the Games (he stood at a small five foot five even though he was 15) had come as an advantage as he was lighter and more agile than the majority of his competitors.

The flaxen haired boy was quick approaching the center bounty, and even more quickly people were beginning to close in on his lead. Most dangerously, he couldn’t tell who was coming from the other side of the Cornucopia, and once he was inside he’d be both blind to who was coming and he’d be trapped in a corner quite literally.

John skid to a halt in front of the golden Cornucopia, for the first time faltering in his decision-making. He knew he shouldn’t go in – he could practically hear Greg yelling at him from the Mentor’s booth – but upon glancing in he saw the brilliant gleam of axes. _His axes._ Axes the game makers put there for him.

Without further contemplation, John took off into the recesses of the golden building knowing full well the Career’s couldn’t be far off. He could only hope that they would ignore him, and go for the weaker lot first.

Just as he was grabbing the axes (and the contraption that went them) John heard a cannon. The Careers. He needed to move more quickly. But it was so _tempting_ in here. There was canned food, water, and weapons. Everything he could ever dream of. But he couldn’t get greedy. Not now. He had to _focus._ Focus on getting out of there.

Unable to stop himself, John grabbed a rather large backpack on the way out of the Cornucopia, and stuffed the axe contraption and three of the small silver axes in as well while keeping on in his hand. When he reemerged from the Cornucopia, the Careers and the others were all struggling quite a ways from the entrance. It looked as if the Careers had intercepted the other ambitious Tributes before they could even come close to the Cornucopia. Blessedly, his speedy entrance had gone unnoticed.

Unfortunately, he’d now have to find a way around the Careers and into the urban jungle. A task, he doubted would go unnoticed.

For one moment, John grappled with what to do. At first, he thought he was going to have to attack a Career to get out (which was _certain_ suicide), until he saw a tall black haired boy blocking his path to the right. The boy was older than he was, and if John remembered correctly, he was from District Eleven. More importantly, the boy was aiming (rather poorly) a bow the girl from John’s own district – Mary. Without hesitation, John launched his axe rather carelessly, and the silver axe buried itself in the soft side of the boy from District 11. Instantly, the boy dropped the bow and fell to the ground. Blood pouring from the wound.

John didn’t think about it. He couldn’t think about it. He swallowed back the sick that burned in the back of his throat as he quickly retrieved the now red axe from the withering boy’s side.

“Thanks, John!” Mary shouted, picking up the discarded bow and arrow. John picked up District 11’s pack and made for the outer circle once again, Mary hot on his heels.

He liked Mary. She was a quiet girl and even smaller than he was despite the fact that she was seventeen. “I was terrified back there” she panted as they were almost clear of the bloodbath. “I thought I was a goner and the Games hadn’t even properly started yet.” John grunted in unison as he passed a small pack on the ground, not willing to stop this close to the bloodbath again. He was already broken Greg’s one rule, he was going to try and not do it again.

Mary, however, didn’t heed to John’s lead, and couldn’t resist the lure of the treasures a pack could hold regardless of the fact that this particular pack was on the far outskirts of the Cornucopia and probably held little more than umbrella or other such nonsense.

“John –“ a strangled cry came from behind him.

“Mary, come on.” John said hurriedly once he realized that Mary had stopped following him. He took a moment to look over his shoulder, and felt sick once he had.

“Oh, _gods_ ”

Mary. Mary Morstan. His one ally and the girl he’d just saved was standing there in the middle of the rubble with a long serrated knife jutted out through her chest where previously there have only been warm flesh and strong bone safely hidden away beneath tanned skin.

Behind Mary was a smirking girl – Irene John thought her name was – from District two. She was tall and all harsh angles in her Tribute’s uniform, and was generally the type of girl one would imagine the Capitol would go nuts over. John might have even found her attractive once, but right now all he could see was her blood red smirk.

For a minute, the two of them stood there – eyes locked, and John couldn’t will his feet to move him away from this place – away from Mary. He could only stand and stare at Irene like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. He had to move. He had to go, but he couldn’t. Mary was dead. Actually and properly dead and the girl who had done it was now gunning for John and here he was unable to move.

Thankfully, a cannon sounded. ( _Mary’s?)_ And John startled, coming _finally_ to his senses.

_gods dammit, focus, John!_  

Irene’s attention was pulled elsewhere and John took off running for anywhere but there. He had to get away. He couldn’t become a target for the Careers, and once the bloodbath ended, and the organized themselves – that’s what he would become. He needed to put as much space between him and them and as fast as possible.

 ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

He hadn’t stopped for hours – he hadn’t dared. Instead, he had run in a zig-zag pattern (hopefully covering his tracks in the most amateur of ways) from the Cornucopia, and when his legs couldn’t run any further, he walked as fast as he could. By dusk, however, his muscles were screaming; his bones aching; and his throat was on fire. Not to mention the fact that he was _completely_ and _utterly_ lost in this concrete jungle where every block and every building made him feel as if he was travelling in circles.

John knew that without the light of day to guide him, he would _actually_ end up running around in circles, as well as get himself killed. The Careers were rather notorious for hunting at night for those Tributes stupid enough to light a fire. And if it wasn’t the Careers who got him, he was sure there was some animal equally terrible lurking out there in the dark somewhere. The Gamemakers were also rather infamous for making sure that the Tributes weren’t the only deadly thing in the arena.

Without much direction, John entered one of the tallest gray buildings. Had he been in a forest, he would have climbed a tree as high as he could until morning, but seeing as the only thing climbable around here were buildings, he would have to make do.

 _________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By the time John made it to the roof of the building, darkness had finally taken over the arena, and every fiber of John’s being was screaming out for sleep.

The way up to the top of the roof had not been a particularly easy one (caved in stairways, over grown plants, blocked doorways), but even with that, John knew that sleep would not come for hours yet. Not only had he not gone through the two packs he had looted, but also he _had_ to wait until the nightly recap of fallen Tributes was played so he’d know what – or rather _who_ – he was up against.

As if on cue, a cannon sounded and the pictures of fallen Tributes (as well as the cause of death) flooded the night sky.

_Martha Baker: District Five. Cause of death: Gleam Hargreave: District One._

_Athelney Jones: District Five. Cause of death: Flash Merivale: District One._

_Pansy Walsh: District Six. Cause of death: Barrett Villard: District Two._

_Mary Morstan: District Seven. Cause of death: Irene Adler: District Two._

John stomach gave a sick flip at the smiling picture of Mary, which filled the night sky. He had known her parents. They had been neighbors. She had been an only child, and now her parents were childless. John shivered. Then yet another picture filled the air, taking the grief of Mary’s death with it. He couldn’t dwell on it. On her. People _had_ to die. There could only be one. Death was inevitable in the arena. Death was imminent – you couldn’t bring anyone back from that. Not here.

_Wilk Galbraith: District Nine. Cause of death: Sebastian Moran: District Four._

_Rich Brook: District Eleven. Cause of death: John Watson: District Seven._

John’s stomach gave another flip, only this time he actually _did_ vomit (rather gracelessly over the edge of the building). He had forgotten about the dark haired boy. He’d _forgotten_ that he had _killed_ another boy. It hadn’t even been twelve hours, and he already had compartmentalized the _murder_ he had committed in the name of the Capitol.

_Death. Mary’s Death. The Boy’s death. It’s necessary. It must be done. Had to done. Don’t dwell. Don’t dwell. Don’t dwell. Remorse will not save your life, and the others sure as hell won’t care about you when you’re dead._

But it didn’t matter. No matter how long or how hard John Watson told himself that this was all justified - that the murder and the ruthlessness were perfectly acceptable and he was blameless - a sick dread filled him.

To occupy his mind, John finally opened the smaller of the two packs he had collected, and unsurprisingly, the contents were not spectacular or particularly useful. Inside was a small lighter (which he’d only ever use if he had a death wish), a small dropper of iodine (for water purification), an aluminum water canteen (empty to John’s chagrin), leather gloves (which John could use to protect his hands when climbing), and finally a six inch hunting knife (It could’ve proved to be useful, if he had seen any game. Which he hadn’t, at least not yet). 

John put the small pack aside and dug into the bigger and hopefully more satisfying pack. After all, he had risked his life to acquire it. He was not disappointed. Most importantly, the pack contained a huge water bottle, which was filled – blessedly – with cool refreshing water. John knew better than to gore himself, so instead he took a few small gulps before reluctantly setting it aside. He didn’t know the next time he’d be able to refill his bottles, so he’d have to be sparing until he found a reliable water source.

The second item john pulled from the pack was a black blanket with something that looked like foil on the reverse side. John wasn’t entirely sure of its usefulness, so he put it aside. It didn’t seem as if the light-reflecting silver would be the most inconspicuous thing in the entire world, and therefore, it didn’t seem necessary. Worst-case scenario, he could toss it if he found the pack was unbearably heavy.

The third thing john pulled out was the contraption and the axes. Now that he had more time to examine the contraption, he realized that it was really a series of seemingly durable leather straps which could loop around his torso and arms and provide a more convenient place to carry and store the axes so they could be more readily used.  

After strapping on the contraption (which took John a remarkably long time to properly figure out), he pulled a smaller pouch from the pack which, when he opened it, was filled with several small bottles of salves and medicines. Not even just the homemade healer variety of medicines either. These were real proper Capitol medicines. “ _Gods_ ” John whispered, finally understanding why this pack had been so deep within the Cornucopia.  This was a near unheard of bounty, and the smaller black pouch made all the effort worth it. Infection was what killed most Tributes in the end, after all.

Hurriedly, John tucked the black pouch into his first smaller pack, and then packed that (and everything else excluding the blanket) into the larger pack, which was now a bit heavy, but could fit both packs snuggly inside. Now that he had seen who had been killed _and_ had gone through his packs, the need for sleep weighed heavily upon him. So, with his axes strapped to his chest, his pack snuggly against his chest, and the blanket (shiny side down) thrown over him, John let sleep finally take him.

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John was sweating when he woke up. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, or what time it currently was, but he was guessing that in actuality it hadn’t been very long at all judging by the fact that the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, and there was that distinctive weariness of that “not enough sleep” feeling behind his eyes.

Gingerly, John sat up trying to access why exactly he had woken up in the first place. He wasn’t cold (even though the air was cool at best), he didn’t have a nightmare (he was far too tired for something as frivolous as _dreaming_ ), and his arm had fallen asleep, but that had never been a problem for him before. He wrinkled his brow. There must have been a reason his subconscious mind would have roused him.

And then he heard it.

An argument.

An argument that was coming from somewhere close enough that John could catch every other word or so.

Crouching behind the ledge of the building he was on, John crept along the parameter of the rood, trying to locate the source of the voices. He knew that they weren’t coming from his building because they weren’t coming from directly below him, but rather from the side _and_ below meaning that the voices were coming from another building in the area.

A shiver ran John. It was alarming to think that had he chosen any other roof – or a building that wasn’t quite as high as the one he had chosen – his hiding spot could have been easily found out and he could have easily woken up to a knife in his belly.

Within a few more minutes of searching for the voices, John had found them. One of the voices belonged to the redheaded girl from District 10 – Kitty something or other. John didn’t particularly like the girl.

Before the group training sessions, John had thought that she might have been competition what with her stocky and strong build. She had nearly 50 pounds on John all of which seemed to be muscle from, what Greg could only assume, years of lifting and throwing hay around (or that’s what he guessed the kids in District 10 did when they were training). However, by the end of the second day of training, Kitty had revealed that she had some skill in hunting and was mildly adept with a knife, but the majority of the training she had spent mindlessly following the Careers around – trying to imitate them, trying to get in good with them, trying to impress them. John wasn’t sure he’d every seen anything so blatantly pathetic.

However, it wasn’t Kitty that John’s dark blue eyes were drawn to, but rather the lanky and gaunt figure that was standing opposite of her. Unlike with Kitty, John didn’t need any time at all identifying who the older boy was. Everyone knew Sherlock Holmes.

Almost every year, ever since John could remember, the Capitol and its people would attach itself to one Tribute in particular. Conventionally, the Capitol rarely cheered for the Careers even though the children from Districts one, two, and four were statistically more likely to win. It would be _boring_ to root for the most likely winner, _instead_ the Capitol rather favored the underdog – the twelve year olds, the small ones, the down trodden. The Gamemakers liked to “root” for the underdog in their own special way as well (which usually meant throwing more obstacles specifically in their way to “overcome”). The Gamemakers would sew a story of grief, hardship, and redemption for the “chosen one” which both ensnared the Capitol’s heart and ensured the Games astronomical ratings.

This year, without a doubt in anyone’s mind, the chosen one had been Sherlock Holmes. And his story had been so thoroughly picked over and reiterated that every mother, father, and child knew of his misfortune. 

Sherlock Holmes came from District Three, which supplied the technology for the entirety of Panem. He came from a privileged family, or as privileged as one could be when one lived outside of the Capitol. His father was the mayor, and while the children of mayors had been reaped before it was _extraordinarily_ unlikely as they often did not have to take out tesserae.  Ten years ago, the statistically improbability happened. Sherlock’s elder brother Mycroft was reaped as a twelve year old.  Naturally, he had been a media darling. Poised, polite, quiet, and cunning as a fox. Not only had he excelled in the Arena, but also Mycroft Holmes had _won_ which was nearly as improbable as him being chosen for the Games in the first place. Infamously, Mycroft had spent the majority of the game manipulating other Tributes to attack one another by setting traps and striking alliances.

The Capitol _adored_ Mycroft who hadn’t stopped with just winning the Games. And while he had not led any other of District Three’s tributes to victory, it wasn’t for lack of trying. And even through his apparent failure, the Capitol continued to praise Mycroft Holmes and lament over the fact that he never had a _worthy_ Tribute to train.

Cut back to a few months ago in District Three, and yet another statistical improbability occurred. After years of not having a worthy opponent to train, Mycroft Holmes was finally presented with a worthy Tribute. His own brother.

The Capitol had went positively ape shit at the news, so much so that the Gamemakers had to actually push back the Reapings in the other districts because of the uproar from the Capitol. The worst part was the Capitol was _beyond_ themselves with giddy joy. It had been so long since they’d have a Games that promised to be so dramatic – so full of angst that it could actually pierce the lavish exterior and remind that of what it felt like to be human (and all without leaving the comfort of their own sofa!). Who could ask for more

In the Districts, quiet terror and outrage spread like a plague for the young boy and his family. In his own District, John have heard rumors that it hadn’t been an accident or fate that had chosen the youngest Holmes brother, but rather the Gamemakers and President Snow himself. Theories ran from that the Gamemaster needed an edge to the Mayor Holmes had a bit of a…rebellious spirit which led to his son’s being punished in his stead.

John wasn’t sure what to believe, but he knew – he just _knew_ – that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t ended up here because the “odds were ever in his favor”. Quite the opposite actually.

Ironically, Sherlock Holmes proved to be the exact opposite of his brother in nearly every way. Sherlock was impossibility tall and lithe with cheekbones even the hordes of people in the Capitol were envious of. He had an eerie look about him, but didn’t look like he’d be much good, or much use at anything physical. It was probably well and good he came from the technology district because he wouldn’t be of use anywhere else.

Not only did he lack any real physical prowess, but also he completely lacked any of his brother’s social grace. Sherlock had been callous, rude, and blatantly flagrant to everyone: “fans” from the Capitol, Caesar Flickerman, even his own brother. No one was spared from the sixteen-year-old’s biting wit. John, personally, had found it hilarious, but he was pretty sure he was the only one.

Sherlock Holmes was such a disappointment to the Gamemakers that he had only scored a whopping four, ranking him as one of the lowest and least threatening Tributes that year.  

In fact, the only thing Sherlock had managed to do well was paint a target on his back.

In all honesty, John felt a little bad for Sherlock.

And it was twinge of guilt that had John Watson running standing on the ledge of his roof, contemplating if he could actually make the jump to the next roof over. It wasn’t a far jump (gods know if these were trees, he wouldn’t have even hesitated) but something about the cold unforgiving concrete made him second-guess himself.

It wasn’t until Kitty pulled a knife, that John found the courage to make the leap to the other building, where he landed safety if not a bit gracelessly.

The soft thud, however, had not gone unnoticed. And Kitty whirled around, knife now brandished at him. He couldn’t say he was particularly prepared. His axes were still in his chest contraption, the hunting knife in his pack, and not to mention his ass was on the floor.

“Listen,” John started, alarmed by the own roughness in his voice, “I don’t want to hurt you.” It was the truth; he didn’t really _want_ to hurt anyone. “If you just leave now, you’ll get out safe. We won’t follow and you’ll be safe. All you have to do is _leave_.”

The girl scoffed in his face. “Why should I?” John pushed himself off the ground, and trying not to physically roll his eyes at the older girl. Even the way she talked was annoying, as if she was putting on a Capitol accent to sound posh. “I’ve got you and him – “ he gestured with the knife at Sherlock, “ – right here. Why would _I_ walk away?”

“Because you’re out numbered, and you’re scared.” Sherlock piped up, his voice so low it could be mistaken for a growl. “You thought you’d be able to take out the poor Holmes brother and earn favor with the Careers?” The boy scoffed, “You repel them, Kitty Gable. And even if you were to kill me, they would kill you before you could even get the name Sherlock past your filthy lips.”

John gave out a stunned bark of laughter (If the jury was ever out, it was now decided. John Watson _definitely_ like Sherlock Holmes), and Kitty looked between the two boys - her false calm giving way to her underlying hysteria.

“All you have to do is _leave,_ Kitty, and you’ll be able to live a bit longer.” John urged, hoping that she would finally take the bait.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, District Seven, protecting Holmes. But I’m not just going to _leave_ so you can kill him and get the glory,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Kitty narrowed her brown eyes at him, “I’m _not_ , and nothing you say will change that. He’s my kill, I’ve claimed him.”

“You’re mad!” John shouted, “You’re absolutely mad! You can’t _claim_ kills. This isn’t about the glory of a kill. It’s about necessity! You have to do what you have to to survive but there’s no reason to _enjoy_ it so much, you psychopath.”

Kitty glared at John, and then back at Sherlock, and drew her knife one more time. “You won’t stand in my way, Seven. He’s mine.”

“Not quite.” Sherlock remarked coolly, right before the axe buried itself in her skull.

 __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You seem remarkably calm.” Sherlock quipped as he followed John down the flights of stairs that would inevitably lead out of the building.

“Yes.” John grunted, focused more on getting _out_ of the building before the canon went off and the Careers came to investigate.

“You have just killed someone”

“It’s the second someone I’ve killed in as many days, so I guess the shock’s worn off.” John didn’t want to talk about it – about the blood; about looting the body; about any of it. He’d rather just forget.

“Yes, well, I’d imagine most people would be quite perturbed by the entire ordeal, but you seem oddly at ease.”

John whirled on Sherlock, “I don’t want to talk about it, Three. So let’s. Just. Drop. It. I did what I had to”

“Well,” mused Sherlock, and John could already feel the hair on the back of his neck start to stand on edge in annoyance, “You didn’t _have_ to. In fact, I’d imagine a large majority of people would argue you did the opposite of what you _had_ to do. All you _had_ to do was let Kitty kill me, and you would be one Tribute closer to surviving the Arena.” He paused for a moment, and John prayed that the other boy would just drop it.

(John learned very quickly that Sherlock Holmes didn’t just _drop_ things)

“Which means you _saved_ me for some purpose other than killing me for yourself. Now, judging by the past Tributes of your district and the slight hitch in you gait –“

John whirled around on Sherlock again, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I saved you because I felt _sorry for you_ , alright? I don’t think it’s fair that you were Reaped, and I feel sorry for your brother for having to train you for certain death, okay? I just didn’t think it was fair, and I couldn’t watch you die and not _do_ anything.”

Sherlock stood stock still, not even blinking in response. Apparently, John Watson had broken Sherlock’s vast intellect.

“…That and I hated that girl.” He added, in an attempt to lighten the mood at least as much as he could.

For a minute, John hadn’t been sure his lame attempt at a joke had work as Sherlock just continued to look blankly as John, as if he were trying to work some immense problem out.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, something shifted in Sherlock’s expression and posture – and if possible – he looked like a completely different boy. While the cold robotic boy was still there, something a bit friendlier, was lurking below the surface now. As if John has somehow passed a test he hadn’t realized he had been taking.

“Oh gods, if you hadn’t come along, I would have killed myself just to get her to shut up.”

John giggled. “Stop. She’s dead; we can’t giggle about how annoying a dead girl is. It’s immoral.

Sherlock gave John a pointed stare before brushing past him and continuing down the stairs, “First, we’re a bunch of teenagers killing one another for sport, so I don’t think morality has a place in our current situation. And secondly,” Sherlock looked up the flight of stairs at John Watson, “if we’re going to be allies, you really must try to keep up, John.”

And with a flamboyant turn and a flourish, Sherlock Holmes took off down the steps with John Watson hot on his heels.

_What the hell did I get myself into?_


End file.
